The office stank of cigarettes and cheap takeout, a sharp contrast to the artificially perfumed air outside. Elijah hadn’t fixed the air recycler, a small rebellion against Nova Prosper’s obsession with synthetic perfection. Case files littered the floor like landmines. Their torn, coffee-stained edges the only honest things in a city of lies.

  His gaze skipped over the photo like a tongue avoiding a sore tooth. His hand twitched, stopping mid-reach, a ritual. The frame sat precisely where he had placed it five years ago, gathering dust, unbothered by the bustle of activity around it.

  He picked up the plastic cup on his desk, half-hoping the whiskey would soften the edges of his anxiety like it always did. The amber liquid caught the artificial glow of the neon light pouring through the office window, promising oblivion but failing to deliver.

  He knew he shouldn't drink. The ghost of his police career whispered warnings about where this road led. But another part of him, the part that remembered Marla's laugh, that remembered who he used to be, knew he wouldn't stop. Not today. Not with these memories bubbling to the surface.

  The whiskey’s brand name flickered across his vision, its syrupy jingle swelling in his ears, another unwanted intrusion of the digital world. Even here, in his self-imposed exile, Meridian's artificial reality overlays seeped through the cracks of his rundown office, monetizing his private misery.

  His implant buzzed. The world flickered, reality and AR ads bleeding together. He nodded reflexively, acknowledging the ad, and downed the drink, the whiskey burning through the sweetness of the jingle. He gazed out the dirt-streaked window, trying to cut through the neon fog of AR ads layered over the city like makeup on a corpse. A message appeared in his vision:

  Still riding in the back of the bus? Upgrade to first class for less than the cost of a gourmet coffee!

  The ad's cheery tone mocked the dwindling contents of his bank account. The AR system was working to find the right hook for his demographic profile: failed cop, private investigator, alcoholic. He was the perfect target for promises of a better life, just a few tasks away.

  Elijah blinked, and the glittering city melted like wax under a flame for one brutal second. Graffiti smeared the walls, messages from real people screaming into the void. Weeds crawled through cement cracks, marking decades of neglect that no digital overlay could genuinely hide.

  Then, the AR overlay snapped back into place, a digital curtain hiding the decay beneath. Meridian made sure that the AR didn't just alter visuals. It actively wove moods and emotions into the fabric of the city, subtly reshaping how people felt, what they believed, and what they longed for. A bright, cheerful overlay could turn a bleak street corner into a place of hope or disguise a dark alley into a welcoming, safe passage.

  It made Elijah feel off-balance, as if the world could shift beneath his feet at any moment. Sometimes, the AR was so immersive that it took a conscious effort to remember what was real and what wasn't, which was the point. Meridian wanted people to get lost in their fantasies, to forget the filth and ruin.

  The AR pressed down like a vice, a subtle pressure that made it hard to breathe, harder still to think. He grabbed the bottle and poured another drink. A message notification popped up in his viewfinder.

  The Future Is What You Make It, Freedom Through Productivity.

  The words faded and were replaced by the spinning icon of the Meridian Corporation. A Corporate Task Network alert blinked: a new gig. The pay was shit. Elijah scoffed and swiped it away. The system never paid more than survival wages, keeping workers on the treadmill.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  He took another drink and rubbed the small spot on his neck where the implant was embedded. He swore he could feel it poisoning his body, like a drug he knew would kill him, but one he still willingly injected into his veins.

  Another notification pinged in his viewfinder. A call from a blocked address. Common enough in his line of work. Privacy was a luxury in Nova Prosper, one his clients paid to maintain. He didn’t need to know things about the client; he just needed to dig up the secrets they wanted unearthed. Everyone wanted something found, but they usually had something to hide. He answered the call.

  “This is Elijah Kincaide, licensed private investigator sponsored by Detective Industries.” Mentioning the corporate affiliation always made his skin crawl. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hello, Elijah. It's been a while.”

  Five years of silence broke casually, like time hadn't carved canyons between them. The voice hit like a punch to the solar plexus, fast and painful. Carefully constructed walls collapsed in five seconds. Today, of all days. His eyes dropped to the photo he'd been avoiding all morning. Marla's face, slightly blurred behind the glass, forever frozen in happiness before everything went wrong. Why the hell was Dominic Hayes calling on the anniversary of her death?

  “Maybe… not long enough,” Elijah said, his voice sharp and pointed, each word a needle. “What do you want?”

  Dominic's face flickered in his AR viewfinder, smiling. Practiced, insincere, political.

  “I need your help.” Those four words had once meant something between them, back when trust wasn't just another commodity to buy and sell.

  “Sorry, full up. I can give you a refer-” The dismissal was automatic, a shield.

  Dominic interrupted. “It's linked to Marla's murder.”

  The words shattered his defenses. Elijah froze, the display flickering, his reaction disrupting the feed.

  “Listen, I don't want to have this conversation over a call.” Dominic's voice dropped lower. “Can we meet in person?”

  Elijah thought about everything he wanted to say, pent-up accusations fighting to break free. But he realized that none of them would bring closure; they would be more things taken from him. His rage deserved better than becoming another trophy on Dominic’s mantle.

  “I’m not looking for any corporate cases right now.” The bitter taste of past betrayals rose like bile in his throat. “The juice ain't worth the squeeze, not for me. Not anymore.”

  He paused, forcing down the hope that threatened to crack his cynical shell, “And I don't buy for a second that this has anything to do with Marla.” The lie felt heavy on his tongue. He wanted to believe Dominic, which made it all the more dangerous.

  “This has everything to do with Marla,” Dominic's voice hardened, “everything.”

  “I'm not your fixer anymore," Elijah snapped. "Not after what you did to me when Marla was killed. You stripped my contracts and ruined my reputation. Find yourself another patsy to clean up Meridian's mess this time."

  Dominic smiled, that same calculating smile Elijah remembered from a hundred crime scenes. “You could walk away if you thought that's what Marla would do," Dominic said, each word precisely chosen for the reaction he wanted, “or take the case and finally get the truth. Your call."

  The offer dangled like a seven-course meal in front of a starving man. Rage flared, burning through his carefully maintained expression. Dominic had gone straight for the one thing that hurt Elijah, wielding Marla's memory like a hammer. It made him a powerful ally and an even more dangerous enemy.

  The promise of Marla's ghost, not just answers, but redemption. If Dominic had been here in person, standing in this office where Marla's presence lingered in every corner, Elijah wasn't sure what he might have done. His hands twitched at the thought. Maybe that was why Dominic had called instead of stopping by. The old police chief was too smart to put himself within striking distance of a man with nothing left to lose.

  “When and where?”

  A pinned location flashed into his view.

  “See you in the clouds,” Dominic replied, then disconnected.

  A FancyRide notification pinged before he could stand up. Dominic wasn't a man to waste time. Elijah got up to leave and glanced at the full-length mirror by the door on his way out. The man staring back at him was worn down, with dark circles under his eyes, a day-old shadow on his face, and a paunch forming where toned muscle used to be.

  He tugged at his button-down shirt, but the wrinkles resisted; as stubborn as the past, he couldn’t escape. He tried to push the image out of his mind, grabbing his black trench coat and fedora before heading downstairs.